He shrugged as if it were no big deal.
“As one does,” Connelly deadpanned.
Sasha gathered up the dirty cups and plates and took them to the sink.
“We’ll get those Mama,” Finn told her.
“I appreciate the offer, Finn. But I’ll take care of the dishes. Why don’t you and Fiona head upstairs and bundle up in some warm clothes? I’ll bet Jack would love to see the snow fort you built on the deck.”
The twins whooped and raced for the stairs.
Sasha locked eyes with Connelly and jerked her head to the side. He threw her a puzzled look but joined her at the sink.
“What’s up?”
“Do you still have your gun on you?” she asked out of the side of her mouth, running the water full-blast to cover their conversation.
He patted the waistband of his pajama bottoms.
“Good. Keep the kids outside until we come out to join you, okay?”
“What’s going on?”
“I just need to confirm something.”
“Sasha—” his voice held a warning.
She twisted the faucet handle to stop the water, then stretched up onto her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. “Thanks.”
He glared at her for a few seconds, then nodded and walked out of the kitchen.
9
Sasha waited until Connelly and the kids were outside. She flipped through the collection of images stored in her memory until she saw a clear, vivid picture of her grandmother’s dented red tea tin with the word чай (chay) inked on the side in gold.
Then she drew in a deep breath through her nose, let it out slowly, and turned from the sink to face Pierce.
“Would you like another cup of chay, Vladimir?”
His face went blank, utterly blank, like stone. She joined him at the table and sat quietly until he spoke.
“How did you know?”
She pointed at the jar of raspberry preserves. “The way you fixed your tea. My Nana Alexandrov used to put jam in her tea. She said that was the only way any self-respecting Russian would take her chay.”
He managed a wistful laugh. “Not the only way. Holding a sugar cube between your teeth while you drink it is also acceptable.”
She eyed him for a moment longer. He seemed to crumple in on himself under the weight of her gaze.
“What happened?”
“Jack Pierce really was only twenty when he died. But, me, I was even younger. Seventeen years old, shaking in my too-big, black buckle, kirza boots. A newly minted member of the G.R.U.”
“You were just a boy.”
He nodded. “I was chosen for the mission because of my youth. I posed as a high school student from Poland, coming to the United States to attend college at the University of Pittsburgh. My job was to find out if Project Ghost was real.”
She pushed back her chair and fetched the kettle to refill his tea. The task was designed to keep her busy and him talking. But she needn’t have worried. Having broken sixty-five years of silence, the man wasn’t about to stop now.
“I was given the coordinates of the flight and the names of the passengers in a dubók, a dead drop, just like in the movies. So I sneaked out of my dormitory and was standing on the bridge, right in the flight path, when the plane went down.”
He paused to stir a spoonful of jam into his tea, a swirl of red in the dark liquid.
He took a sip, then continued, “I saw nothing, just the night sky, but I could hear it. A loud roar, growing louder. And then, it was like I told your children, there was a flash of plane as the bomber hit the water. And then it vanished, seamlessly turning into waves even as it fell into the river. I couldn’t believe what I’d seen.”
“How did you end up with Jack Pierce’s identity?”
“I was still standing there, in shock, I guess, when the tugboat captain rescued the crew. I overheard them talking, saying that Pierce was still missing. And then they were taken away, to the hospital or back to the base. I don’t know. A short while later, I spotted a body floating near the shore.” He met her eyes. “He was already dead.”
“You took his ID and left your dog tags,” she guessed.
A brief nod. “I was terrified. Imagine seeing proof with your own eyes that your country’s most fearsome enemies had access to invisibility. We couldn’t defeat that. And, in truth, I craved the temporary freedom I enjoyed masquerading as a student in America. I wanted out.”
“And Jack Pierce’s drowning death was your opportunity.”
“Yes. His body must have been pulled back under because it was never found. Your reporter, Mr. Cowman, found the tags. I watched him pocket them. That was just before he snapped my photo.”
“He approached you?”
“Yes, and I told him my name was Jack Pierce. The police overheard and knew that I … er, Pierce … had been on the plane. I was whisked away to the hospital, and I guess the police told Cowman I was with the Secret Intelligence Service. The rest is true, meeting Bettina, falling in love.”
She bit her lip in thought. “You assumed Pierce’s identity and nobody questioned it?”
“It wouldn’t work today. Computers, social media, cell phones. But back then, I had his grainy passport photo, his military ID, and his name. We were both white men, similar ages, similar sizes, the same military haircuts. It wasn’t hard.”
“What about his bosses—at MI6?”
“I wrote up a report about the crash. It was partially true. I added a bit about engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a Soviet spy after the American G.I.s skedaddled. I claimed I mortally wounded him. I had his—my—false identification as a Polish student to back it up. I added enough detail to allow MI6 to investigate quietly. And it determined that Jack Pierce had killed Vladimir Ivanoff, a G.R.U. officer. After that? Jack Pierce was a hero and they didn’t ask any questions.” He shrugged.
“Were you a double agent?”
He shook his head. “No. I told you, I wanted out. The Soviet Union believed Ivanoff was dead. The British government believed Ivanoff was dead. I was content for Ivanoff to be dead. I became Pierce.”
“What about the U.S. military? surely they investigated, too.”
“Eh, your government was more concerned about burying the incident. There were whispers that the Chamela paint might have caused the crash. Everyone wanted to forget that night—except Archie Cowman.”
“Did Bettina know?”
Another head shake. “Not until the very end. She was dying when I told her. She just laughed. She was married to Pierce and that was good enough for her.”
“What about your daughter?”
His clear blue eyes clouded, and he drained his mug before answering. “Her father is Jack Pierce.”
She picked up the dog tags, turned over his hand, and pressed the metal disks into his palm. “These belong to you.”
He rubbed a thumb over the worn, engraved numbers that, once upon a time, had been tied to the person he was. Then he placed the tags back in the box, taking care to nestle them against the yellowing newspaper article.
“No, they belong to history.”
His hand hovered over the photograph. “But I would like to take this if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
He stood and carried his mug to the sink and placed it in the basin. Then he retrieved his black parka and put it on. He slipped the photograph into an inside pocket and patted it as if to verify that it was secure.
“I’ll check out that fort and be on my way.”
“Will you be able to drive the snowmobile all the way back? With your, um, injury?”
He grinned at her. “I’ve endured worse, and less deservedly. I did break into your home, after all.”
“Still.”
He waved away her worry. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll muddle through. I always do. But what will you do?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“It’s been a lo
ng time, but the intelligence community’s been known to hold a grudge. Are you planning to unmask me?”
She studied his lean face and his bright eyes for a moment. Then she shook her head. “I don’t have the energy to start an international incident.” Again, she added silently.
“So you’ll keep my secret?”
“Yes. We learned the fate of the plane. That was the mystery the kids wanted to solve.” She smiled. “Thanks for your help with that.”
“No, thank you. You’re giving me the gift of living out my years in peace rather than listening for a knock at the door.”
He zipped his coat up to his chin and pulled on his gloves, easing the leather gingerly over his broken finger.
As he put his hand on the doorknob, she said, “Wait. I do have another question. The tugboat captain’s car accident. Was that really an accident?”
He turned back and gave her a grim look. “Eh, I don’t know. I was in England by then. But, if I were a betting man … someone in your government was tying up loose ends. Especially if the technology being tested was too unstable and dangerous for them to use. They’d want to make sure nobody else perfected it to use against them.”
“I suppose.” It made sense, given the paranoia and mistrust of the Cold War era.
“The captain was most likely collateral damage.”
“And the threatening calls Archie Cowman received?”
A nod of acknowledgment. “That was me. I’m not proud of it, but I had a lot to lose if he dredged up the past.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you still?”
“I won’t harm your family, Sasha. You have my word.” Before she had time to respond, he twisted the knob and stepped out onto the deck to cheers of excitement from the twins.
She gave Connelly a thumbs-up signal through the window to let him know there was no need to shoot their guest then rushed off to find her coat and boots.
10
December 30, 2020
8:45 P.M.
* * *
Fiona stifled a yawn. Finn rubbed his eyes with both fists. Connelly shot Sasha a thumbs-up signal over their bath-damp heads.
Mission accomplished.
Through a concerted program of snowball fights, tag (indoor and outdoor), a scavenger hunt, and a family dance party/pillow fight, they had successfully exhausted the twins. Their cozy beds beckoned.
“Let’s get you pumpkin butts into bed. But first, we have a very important job to do.”
Fiona gave up on the stifling and unhinged her jaw, yawning widely. “We do?”
“We do. We’re secret keepers now. We need to put the box back in the attic and keep Jack’s secret about the ghost plane for another sixty-five years,” Connelly told her.
“Really?” Finn asked, his voice thick with sleep.
“Really. Just imagine, Finn. You’ll be all grown up, maybe with kids of your own, and on some rainy day, or snowy day, or a day when they’re home sick from school, another little boy or girl will be playing in the attic and find the box.”
Fiona’s eyes shined. “And they’ll have a mystery to solve!”
Sasha smiled at her. “Exactly.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” Finn agreed.
Connelly handed him the box, and he crawled into the small space.
“Stick it way in the back, Finny,” his sister called.
He climbed out, dusting his hands on his pajamas.
“I did.”
“Good job,” Sasha told him.
Connelly wrapped Fiona’s small hands around the hammer and held the first nail in place. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
They pounded in two nails, then Finn helped nail the final two.
“There. The secret of the ghost plane is safe.”
“Cool,” Finn said.
“Cool,” Fiona echoed.
“Fee-fee, wanna camp out in my room?”
“Yeah.”
They tromped down the stairs, Fiona holding Connelly’s hand, Finn’s small warm hand inside Sasha’s.
It was Connelly’s night to read the bedtime story, so Sasha gave the kids their goodnight kisses and headed downstairs to pour the Prosecco that had been chilling in the fridge.
Connelly joined her in front of the fire within minutes.
“That was quick.” She passed him his glass.
“The hours of constant interaction and the early dinner of mac and cheese paid off,” Connelly told her, clinking his flute against hers.
She noted his pained expression. “Your homemade baked macaroni and cheese is transcendent.”
He settled in next to her on the sofa. “It wasn’t what I envisioned for our anniversary dinner.”
“To unexpected surprises.”
He smiled. “I’ll drink to that.”
They fell into a companionable silence. She watched the flames lick the log in their hypnotic dance.
“Did you talk to Hank?”
“I did. He said that Project Ghost and Chamela are designated top-secret, highly confidential. Uncomfortable questions will definitely be asked if the files are accessed. His best guess lined up with Pierce’s. The DoD determined that the technology they were testing caused the crash and scrapped the program.”
“And then got rid of as much evidence as they could?”
“Yeah. It makes me wonder if they didn’t secretly remove the plane. Even if Pierce was right, and it would’ve blended into the riverbed. It’d be a risk to leave it. But I suppose we’ll never know.”
No, they never would. She nestled in closer, and they stared into the fireplace.
After a moment, she put down her glass and turned to look up into his cashmere gray eyes. “Do you think we made the right decision? Keeping Vladimir Ivanoff’s secret?”
“I do.” His voice was firm, but his expression was tender.
“I hope so.”
“I know so.” He placed his flute on the table and took both her hands. “Of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes. Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange.”
After a moment, she got the reference. “The Tempest.”
“Bingo. Vladimir Ivanoff underwent his sea change. Jack Pierce is five fathoms deep. Let the rich, strange result be.”
She thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re pretty hot when you quote Shakespeare. You know that?”
“Duh. Why do you think I recited it to you on our wedding night?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Same reason I recited it to you, I imagine.”
He laughed huskily and tugged her closer. “It worked.”
“Happy anniversary, Connelly.”
“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Connelly.”
She grinned. “That’s Ms. McCandless-Connelly to you.”
Author’s Note
Dear lovely reader,
I wrote this slice-of-life novella over ten weeks between March 17 and May 21. For most of that time, most of the U.S. and much of the world was living under stay at home orders in an effort to flatten the curve of COVID-19. I thought my readers would welcome a distraction, and I knew I would! So I did something I'd never done before: I serialized a story. Each Friday, I sent the newest chapter to my newsletter readers. It was a departure for me, and it was surprisingly fun.
I also chose to write about a family who was stuck at home thanks to a massive winter storm. I wanted to tell a story that was both relevant to the current situation and an escape from the realities of that situation. Full Fathom Five: A Sasha and Leo Novella is the result.
The plot is inspired by a real, honest-to-goodness unsolved mystery. On January 31, 1956, a B-25 bomber really did crash into one of Pittsburgh's rivers and disappear! https://www.heinzhistorycenter.org/blog/western-pennsylvania-history/mystery-of-pittsburghs-ghost-b-25-bomber To this day, nobody is sure what became of the plane.
The details of Full Fathom Five are, of course, not real. As far as I know, there wa
s no top-secret chameleon paint project run out of Pittsburgh during the Cold War. Although, one never knows, there could have been! https://www.thedrive.com/the-war-zone/29543/the-visible-history-of-the-militarys-hunt-to-realize-an-invisible-aircraft
Finally, the character of Jack Pierce/Vladimir Ivanoff, a tough, fit octagenarian who gets the jump on Sasha in a fight, is an homage to Dr. Anthony Fauci, the 79-year-old director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Disease, who reportedly continued to run 3.5 miles a day while working extraordinarily long hours fighting COVID-19 as a member of the White House Coronavirus Task Force. https://www.menshealth.com/fitness/a31927365/anthony-fauci-running/
Whether you read this novella during a pandemic, a winter storm, or lounging on a beach, I hope it provides a brief escape from daily life. Be well, and take good care of yourselves and your loved ones!
Warmly,
Melissa
Acknowledgments
My huge thanks to Tamrina Matta, Tom Walsh, and Trevor Furrer, who generously proofread this novella.
My thanks, too, to the readers who responded to my weekly emails over the ten-week period with personal notes; photographs of their pets, their reading nooks, and their worlds; and jokes and stories. Connecting with you has been an unexpected treasure.
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